


Playing Fair

by Biczarrk



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Ainana Police, Alternate Universe - Police, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Gun Kink, Handcuffs, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Interrogation, Light Masochism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Police, Power Play, gunfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 11:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17283557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biczarrk/pseuds/Biczarrk
Summary: [based on the Ainana Police event stories]The mission to capture Nanase Riku went badly, and Yamato ends up in holding at the Ainana Police station. He and Mitsuki fuck idk there's guns lol this is pwp





	Playing Fair

**Author's Note:**

> this may seem like a potential dubcon situation based on the tags. that is not the case. yamato is completely 100% into this and mitsuki is aware of that.  
> this is sooorttt of based on a req from a server. written hastily

It’s dark here, and it smells of gunpowder. Nearby, Officer Nanase lays unconscious, his body hanging slack against the ropes. There are spilled, broken syringes on the ground, but no sight of No. 5. Faraway, Yamato can hear yelling. The metal scaffolding groans, as if it’s tempted to collapse. Smoke clouds his vision. His glasses are cracked. 

Yamato isn’t sure how long he was out, but a horrifying pain in his leg violently drags him back to consciousness. He lets out a pained groan, wheezing. He can’t seem to find air. He chokes on smoke.

When he manages to twist his head enough, he sees what the source of the pain is. A piece of metal walkway from the floor above has fallen in the flurry of explosions. It’s pinning his leg down. He tries to jerk it away, but the pain is so overwhelming he ends up just letting out a choked sob. 

“No.5?!” He yells, calling out. His voice cracks. “No.6?”

No response. 

“ _ Nanase, _ ” he hisses, trying to see if the officer will wake. There’s dirt smeared across his face. A piece of the railing has fallen against the side of his shoulder, but nothing so big he can’t shove off. Yamato yells. “Nanase!”

His hand twitches, but he doesn’t wake up. Yamato goes in and out of consciousness, finding it harder and harder to stay awake. He’s lucky there isn’t more fire, so there isn’t much in the way of smoke to inhale. His leg doesn’t feel broken, either, as far as he can tell--just bruised. Maybe a fracture at worst, or at least he hopes--it’ll be so much easier later if he isn’t as injured. It’ll be a hassle.

Voices from faraway. Boots, but not those of No.5 or No.6. They go for Nanase first, untying him and pulling the unconscious officer into their arms. 

He pretends to be unconscious. Once they’re gone, he waits. For what, he doesn’t know. Most of the footsteps disappear, clanging away down the steps as Nanase is hauled away.

But not all.

Heavy clangs come toward him, and stop in front of his head.

“So much pride,” the voice says. Mitsuki. The usual cheery edge to his voice is faded. “Even before you turned on us. I suppose you’ll say you don’t want your help.”

Yamato opens his eyes and spits on his combat boots. “You’re right. I don’t. This was all-”

“-part of the plan. Sure. And I’m sure Dyna R was part of that plan, too? You knew they were coming? You were just going to hand Officer Nanase over to them?” 

Mitsuki moves over to the metal piece and grabs it, heaving. The scaffolding groans. 

Searing pain as the piece pulls off. It was numbing out his lower leg and loosened pressure is setting the trapped blood free. “Jesus  _ christ- _ ”

“Shut up!” Mitsuki curses. “ _ Ugghhhh, fuck, this is heavy- _ ”

Yamato passes out.

_______________

 

He wakes up in less pain than he knows he should be.

It’s warm here, with dim light. His wrists feel raw, and when he tries to yank them apart, they hurt even more. He opens his eyes. Handcuffs.

Roomier than a jail cell. It looks like an office, but it’s blurry. He blinks. In the corner, a figure moves. Bright hair.

“Mitsuki,” he says, not sure what he’s meant to be observing.

“I assume you want your glasses,” he says, and moves to grab something from a desk. 

He brings them over and fits the lenses over Yamato’s face. Mitsuki comes into focus, looking much cleaner than the last time Yamato saw him. He’s in only half uniform. He has a gun holstered at his hip, but he’s careful to keep it far away. His hair looks soft, neatly styled. His collar is unbuttoned at the top.

“Got your lens fixed,” he says.

Yamato turns his gaze away, sneering. “How kind of you. You shouldn’t have. I’m actually incredibly confused why you did.”

“It seems wrong,” he says. “To keep you in the dark. That’s not fair.”

“Since when have we cared about things being fair?”

Mitsuki turns his face away, anger blighting his expression. “Oh, shut the fuck up. Just shut up, Yamato. I’m not doing this. It’s emotionally and physically exhausting. I did it because it’s the right thing to do. Just like it was the right thing to do to save you. To give you painkillers, which, by the way, are the only things keeping you from absolutely crumbling due to how messed up your leg is. But those should be wearing off soon.”

“I hope they do. I could use a little  _ stimulation, _ ” Yamato says. He leans forward, trying to step up, but his ankle is handcuffed to the bed he’s sitting on. “Oh, kinky. Did you set up this room just for me?”

“We’ve only got one holding cell in this office, and it’s currently holding that café owner you roped into this.”

_ No.6, _ Yamato thinks.  _ He’s alive. _ He hopes that No.5 is still out there. If he is, they still have a chance.

“Sougo is in the hospital right now,” Mitsuki says. His expression looks sad. “He was injured. He’ll live, if it matters to you. But he’s badly hurt.”

Yamato tests his restraints, pulling against the metal, but they seem solid. He doesn’t think he can snap them, or twist his way out of them. Not without flaying his own hand.

“You want me to feel bad?” He sneers, flicking his tongue out against his teeth. “They’re all dispensable. I twisted the two of them like tools, fitting into my hands perfectly. They bowed to my every command, and I would still have sacrificed them for myself given a chance. Blood is blood.”

Mitsuki’s face goes flush with anger. “And you’re okay with that kind of blood on your hands?”

“Sure,” Yamato says. He shrugs, tugging his restraints as far as they’ll go so he can get closer to Mitsuki. Closer to his gun. “it turns me on.”

“You’re fucking bluffing.” Mitsuki hisses, pulling back and whipping out his gun. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” Yamato bends his elbows, wiggling fingers in handcuffs behind his back. He spreads his legs. If Mitsuki gets close enough, he can grab his keys. “It’s sad you’ve been waiting all this time, watching me, just to find an answer you should have known. It’s almost erotic.”

Mitsuki purses his lips, then turns the safety off on his gun. There’s a cartridge in.

“You want to play?” Mitsuki says. “Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“I said, open it,” Mitsuki says. Firm. A small smile on his face. Condescending. “Since you can’t seem to shut up.”   


A shiver runs through his body, even though he tries to suppress it. He drops his handcuffs between his legs. He opens his mouth, waiting.

Mitsuki presses the gun inside, against his tongue. The taste is thickly metallic. He can taste gunpowder, acrid on his tongue. It’s bigger than he thought it would be.

“Suck,” Mitsuki commands, that same smile on his face.

Yamato pauses before doing as he’s told. He keeps direct eye contact with other man as he does, playing it up for show. He swirls his tongue around the tip. Flicks it against the grooves. It’s a blunt item, not comfortable or easy to keep inside. Mitsuki presses it just slightly farther inside, watching Yamato gag. He pulls the gun out, holding it up to the light as Yamato’s saliva drips down it.

“Too much?” Mitsuki asks him, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. He drops his gaze to Yamato’s hips. To his groin. “Oh, or is it not enough?”

His hands are encased in slim black gloves. He brings his fingers to Yamato’s face, gently brushing them against his cheek. Then, he roughly takes his face and forces it up, making Yamato look at him.

“I  _ said, _ you useless, sadomasochistic  _ slut, _ is that enough for you?”

The harsh words come like a slap to the face, and Yamato is harder than ever. He keens into Mitsuki’s touch. He shudders, his entire body going slack and malleable.

“You wish,” he spits, grinning ear to ear. “Try me.”

Mitsuki weaves his fingers through Yamato’s hair, pushing the gun back into his mouth. He takes it slow, but urges it deep, tapping the back of Yamato’s throat. Mitsuki just watches him with entertainment in his gaze as he gags. He coughs on the hard metal.

“You’re not sucking,” Mitsuki observes. “You have one job.”

Mitsuki’s orders make a heat grow in his groin that he doesn’t want to stop. The officer presses his knee between Yamato’s legs, grinding into his cock through his tight pants. Yamato feels close to tears, but he moved his head back and forth, bobbing his head back and forth on the loaded weapon.

“Is that why you did all this?” Mitsuki asks, though it’s more of a rhetorical question. “Because you get off on danger?”

He jerks Yamato forward by his hair, making him choke. He holds him there for a moment, drooling, panicked breathing through his nose, before he finally pulls the gun away. He wipes the spit off of it on Yamato’s pant leg and laughs. Yamato heaves, catching his breath, his throat raw.

Mitsuki gives him time to recover before he comes back, straddling him on the bed. “You respond so well to my orders,” he says. “Aren’t you usually the master? The one in charge?”

Yamato shivers. He drags his gaze over Mitsuki’s body; his hips, the curve of his muscles through his shirt, the sharp cut of his neck and jaw-

“Being in handcuffs tends to switch things around a bit,” he breathes. “You should try it sometime.”

“Maybe,” Mitsuki says, smiling. “Not with you, of course.”

Yamato grinds up into Mitsuki’s hips. They’re both half hard; he can feel it. “Not unless I pin you to the ground and lock you up,” he hisses. 

“That sounds good.” Mitsuki wraps his thighs around Yamato’s waist. Their lips are just inches apart. “Keep dreaming. You’re pathetic.”

Mitsuki kisses him fast and hard, controlling his tongue, controlling his mouth. He can barely breathe. His heart is racing, body flooded with adrenaline. He doesn’t  _ want _ to breathe. He kisses Mitsuki back, hard, grinding into him and making him groan. Yamato nips at the other man’s lips, drawing blood. 

Mitsuki pulls away with a wince, touching his mouth. His fingers come back red. 

“You look good like this,” Yamato says. “Bloody. Flustered. You’ve got me handcuffed, and I can still make you moan.”

Mitsuki shoves Yamato back to the bed, holding him down by his neck. His eyes are narrowed, expression somewhere between angry, thrilled, and turned-on. Yamato knows he’s likely all three. He coughs, blood supply to his brain cut off by Mitsuki’s choking.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll take back those words,” he breathes, his voice a shuddered order. “Spread your legs.”

Yamato’s harder than he remembers being in recent history, even in his sexually-charged flings with No.5 and No.6 (usually separately, once both at the same time). He does as he’s told, gasping as Mitsuki finally pulls his hand away from his throat. He moves his legs apart.

“You know,” he says. “I’m clean. This clothing is new. Did you  _ bathe _ me, Mitsu? Grope my body while I was unconscious?”

Mitsuki flushes, and Yamato watches him fight to keep his expression even. 

“And what if I did?” He asks, though he and Yamato both know he didn’t. “Do you fantasize about me using you like a toy?”

“I don’t know, Mitsu,” Yamato says, flicking his tongue against his lips. “Who’s the one really being played with?”

Mitsuki pops the button of Yamato’s fly, tugging his tight pants down and off of his body so fast Yamato barely has time to blink. He’s rough. His hard grip on the damaged, black-bruised skin of Yamato’s leg is agonizing. Yamato groans without meaning to, crying out.

Mitsuki pops lube out of his pocket. Yamato wants to laugh, but he’s stopped by the sudden, hard pressure of two fingers against huge the ring of a bruise just above his knee.

“You’re fully hard.” Mitsuki spits into his hand and strokes Yamato’s cock a couple times. He ghosts his lips over the tip, but doesn’t let it into his mouth. “Do you like being in pain? I can’t imagine that.”

“You like seeing me in pain.” Yamato laughs, his voice cracking. It’s a gravelly sound. His throat is raw.

Mitsuki coats two fingers in lube and shoves them inside Yamato’s entrance, making him wince. 

“Normally, in this situation, with you,” Mitsuki says. “I’d just use spit. Make it rough. Make it painful.”

He scissors his fingers inside Yamato’s body, then curls them up inside him, making him let out an uncharacteristic squeak. 

“S-so why aren’t you?” Yamato asks the question Mitsuki wanted him to ask.

“Because I’m not the first thing that’s going to be fucking you.”

There’s the touch of something cold at his entrance. Yamato shudders. Mitsuki pushes the tip in slowly, the cool, hard metal trying to find a place inside Yamato’s body. It feels wrong, like an intrusion. It’s a foreign object. Mitsuki pushes deeper. Yamato whimpers.

Mitsuki just watches, carefully judging his expression. Yamato isn’t completely sure how he feels. He can’t seem to work his brain around it. Mitsuki starts moving the weapon, slowly thrusting in and out of him.

“The safety’s still off,” Mitsuki says, a casual reminder. “I wouldn’t make any sudden movements. I’d hate to blow your body apart from the inside. It would be bad ethics to kill you before you can have a criminal trial.”

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he breathes. He twitches. He almost doesn’t notice himself rocking back into the cold, metal object.

“You’re such a pathetic whore,” Mitsuki says, his tone impressively emotionless, even when speaking in ways Yamato never would have imagined him speaking. “You’re getting off to being fucked by a weapon that could kill you.”

He moans, low and needy, into Mitsuki’s neck. Finally,  _ finally, _ the officer pulls the gun out and turns on the safety, tossing it to the side. “Turn over. Face into the pillow.”

Yamato does as he’s told. Mitsuki undoes his belt and the top buttons of his pants, pulling out his cock. He renews it with fresh lube and presses into Yamato without warning. Hard. Fast. Desperate.

Mitsuki weaves his fingers through Yamato’s locks, getting a firm grip and yanking. He uses it like a handle, fucking Yamato so hard it hurts. Stings. He’s sensitive already from the cold metal of the gun. He’s overstimulated. He’s so close. He gasps, but the sound is cut off as Mitsuki shoves his face even farther into the pillow.

Mitsuki adjusts his hand positioning and chokes Yamato from behind. His groans get lost, breaking up with Mitsuki’s touch. His leg aches, the painkillers faded. Every part of him feels bruised in the best way. Mitsuki’s breathing is ragged and heavy. 

He fucks him roughly, increasing his pace before suddenly slowing down. He gives two long, languid thrusts, then pulls out and comes across the bare skin of Yamato’s back with a shaky moan.

“I could leave you like this, Yamato-san,” he says. A threat. “Alone. Handcuffed. Unable to do anything about how hard you are.”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

“Oh?” Mitsuki laughs. “Beg for me.”

Yamato hangs his head. He swallows. “Please. Fucking please. Touch me.”

Mitsuki hits the sore skin of his thigh. “Mm. Anything else to add?”

“Sir,” he hisses. “Just fucking touch me, you unbelievable, irritating, son of a bi-”

Mitsuki brings his hand around to the front of Yamato’s body and gives him a few quick strokes That’s all it takes. Yamato comes, hot and thick, into Mitsuki’s hand.

He shudders, his legs barely able to hold him up, and collapses into the mattress. Mitsuki just laughs, moving to clean off his hand. He gets a wet rag and wipes off Yamato’s skin.

“I fucking hate you,” Yamato hisses. His wrists are sore. The handcuffs hurt. “All that, and you’re still going to send me to prison?”

Mitsuki winks, beaming at him. “To trial, Yamato-san. And then to jail.”


End file.
